


What I Know Now

by whatagrump



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5399666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatagrump/pseuds/whatagrump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hamilton receives news of John Laurens's death, he's not ready to give up on his friend so quickly. AKA, Hamilton is very bad at grieving, Eliza doesn't know what to do about it, and Philip is an infant. Set in early October, 1782. Flashbacks to 1777 and the days after the Battle of Brandywine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Know Now

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Hamilton fanfiction. Content warnings for death, unreality/delusion, mourning, bad mourning, and some mild violence. Everything unrelated to personal dialogues and private scenes, is historically accurate. If you're curious about some of the weirder bits, like Hamilton's mission on the Schuylkill River, I encourage you to look it up because yes that actually did happen.
> 
> Comments/crits more than welcome. This is my first foray into historical fiction, Hamilton or otherwise.

The little stranger had woken Eliza in the early hours of the morning, demanding as always, and she had been up since dawn rocking and hushing him for the sake of the sleeping household. Upon waking and catching her rather grum expression, Hamilton had quickly offered to watch Philip, a burden he took on with no small amount of enthusiasm. Now he sat on the carpet with his son propped up on his lap, the sleeves of his morning robe bunched up around his elbows to better avoid whatever mess Philip would inevitably produce. Though his grandfather had given the boy a beautiful silver and coral rattle to chew on, Hamilton found that a proffered thumb worked just as well, and was a good deal quieter. And he needed quiet now, if he was to think.

There was a letter tucked away in the desk by the window. Hamilton had slipped it into one of the drawers the week before, and hadn’t taken it out since. His father-in-law had been gracious enough to lend him the room as a study, ensuring the privacy of the desk and its contents, and Hamilton had quickly covered the shelves, mantlepiece, and spare chairs with tilting stacks of manuscript pages and legal treatises. The mess was enough of a deterrent to any maidservants who may have otherwise intruded. And in addition to all this, there was now a letter tucked away in the desk by the window.

The edges were crimped where he had squeezed the paper too hard, and a small tear in the top marked the moment when he had startled suddenly at Eliza’s voice. She had only said his name, but he’d forgotten that she was standing beside him.

“Alexander? Is it…is everything alright?”

He recovered himself and nodded mutely, scanning the letter once again, and then again, and again. Moments before, when he had first caught sight of those dreaded words, a flash of burning heat had filled him, spreading rapidly from his chest up to his head and down to his toes. His knees had buckled slightly, and he had fumbled for the edge of the table beside him. The panicky heat had not yet abated when Eliza gently prompted him, and he forced himself to take a slow breath before handing her the letter with an almost steady hand. He tried not to watch her face as horrible comprehension dawned on it, instead focusing on keeping his shaking, fidgeting hands in check.

“Oh, Laurens,” she said in a soft, sympathetic voice. “Oh, no. Oh…”

She trailed off and Hamilton was sure he saw tears in her eyes, though she and Laurens had never properly met. Perhaps the tears were meant for him.

He took the letter back from her and said nothing more, and Eliza—sweet, angelic Eliza, who always seemed to know exactly what he wanted—left him to his thoughts. As soon as he heard the door click shut, he folded the letter once, twice, and locked it away.

It had been a week now. Cold, early autumn light cast a stripe across little Philip’s  head and better illuminated the curls that were just beginning to darken.

“What do you say, my darling? Shall I go back to my studies?” Hamilton asked.

Philip gurgled happily, still intent on chewing his father’s thumb to bits.

“Yes, I suppose we may wait until after breakfast. What a prudent young gentleman you are.” He pressed a light kiss to the top of Philip’s downy head and tried to recall his thoughts.

The heat that filled him upon his first reading of the letter had quickly subsided, replaced by cool reason and a comfortable numbness he was sure would better enable him to examine the facts of the case. Laurens’s letter (well, it was not Laurens’s letter, as it had not been written by him or even by his father—an important point that Hamilton resolved to revisit) fit poorly in the setting it was read. Hamilton could not match the words, soaked as they were with mud, blood, and gunpowder, with the fine parchment and ink used to write them, or the genteel furnishings of Philip Schuyler’s mansion. He was not so foolish as to think the violence had ended, but it was not meant to cross the threshold of their home. It had already been nearly a year since Hamilton had last donned his uniform, and for the past few months he had been absorbed in his legal studies. Hadn’t he only just written to John? Hadn’t he only just received a letter from the man, teasing him for his newfound domesticity? While he could not pretend the war was over, surely John was not so regularly involved as to put himself in such danger.

_Of course, he was never happier than when he_ was _in such danger,_  a more cynical voice replied.

Hamilton quickly pushed that voice aside with his second, far more salient point: the letter was not from Henry Laurens, or any other member of the household. Rather, it was a second-hand account from a competent but not infallible officer that neither Hamilton nor Laurens had ever known particularly well. The tone was brisk, the details few, and in the week since he had received it there had been no second letter to corroborate it. Such letters were commonplace and experience had taught him not to trust them too readily. He recalled a favorite anecdote amongst the family, of which he was the subject.

 

* * *

 

It was mid-September of ’77, just after the Battle of Brandywine which had so decimated their forces and sunk their spirits. The new fellow from France, whom they had all taken to quickly, was laid up by an injury, and Laurens limped along on a badly bruised ankle.

“His Excellency has very good reason to keep you here, my dear.”

Laurens snorted. “I was hardly grazed by that musket ball. A mere contusion.”

“I do not think that it is the state of your poor ankle that so concerns him,” Hamilton said with a smile, “as it is the circumstances under which you received the injury.”

Laurens took a moment to comprehend this, then threw his hands up in exasperation. “He thinks I am reckless.”

“He is not the only one.”

“Well, you’re a fine one to talk! Though I’m sure you’ll sooner work yourself to death than catch a bullet.”

Hamilton shrugged his coat on and made for the door. “Your words cut to the quick, Laurens. I promise, I will endeavor to prove you wrong.”

 

The Schuylkill River was impossibly cold and brutally fast. The deafening rush of water was occasionally punctuated by the frantic gasps of his men as the current dragged Hamilton under the surface and pushed him back out again. Gun shots still sounded from the bank, but they quickly faded as the river took them God knew where. Thankfully, they were only at its mercy for a few short, frenzied minutes before the river bottom rose and caught their feet. Water poured from their sleeves and pockets as they emerged, and Hamilton quickly searched the distant bank for the British dragoons. They were out of sight—though perhaps only around the bend. Hamilton and his men would have to move quickly.

“Did anyone see if Captain Lee reached his horse?” he asked the men as they shook themselves dry. One seemed unharmed, the other cupped a hand to an ear badly torn by a bullet. Two men…hadn’t there been three?

“Yes, sir, he did. Though I did not see how far they got,” said the uninjured soldier.

Hamilton clapped a hand to the soldier’s shoulder, a show of camaraderie that masked his own unsteadiness. “We will learn soon enough, once we reach Warwick. Now, what of the boat?”

“The boat, sir? Afloat in the middle of the river.”

“There was a second boat. What of the _second_  boat?”

“I imagine it is still moored where we left it, sir.”

He felt himself grow pale. The loss of his own horse and the third man—for yes, there had been three—could not compare to the loss of the boat, and as loathe as Hamilton was to admit it, he was partially at fault. The British would soon have the means to transport their men across the river in mass numbers.

“I need to write a letter.”

 

The camp was silent and largely dark when they finally reached it. Hamilton hadn’t taken the time to tip the water out of his boots, and with the prospect of warmth close at hand he was beginning to feel the chill. He bid the other two men goodnight with a nod and a terse command that they report to headquarters in the morning, and continued up the hill to the farmhouse. The windows were all well lit, not surprising given the nature of the work conducted within, and Hamilton took only a moment to recollect himself before barging in.

“Your Excellency! I’ve prepared a letter to Philadelphia, but I fear—”

He was cut short by the stunned silence in the room. Washington himself stood in the very center of it, a slightly damp letter clutched in his hand and his eyes fixed on Hamilton. The other aides were equally still.

“My dear boy,” Washington finally said, his shocked expression overtaken by a very small, very rare smile.

The silence broken, the other aides began to laugh, a few wiping at their eyes for some strange reason. Hamilton found Laurens on the other side of the room and shot him a look of deep confusion, but Laurens too was laughing and sniffing and clapping his hands together in a peculiar paroxysm of glee. The aides mobbed Hamilton, slapping him on the back and tousling his hair.

Finally, Laurens mastered himself enough to say, in a voice unsteady with suppressed laughter, “it seems that Captain Lee’s information was not entirely reliable. You see, we were very recently under the impression that you were dead.”

Hamilton paused, still panting from the sprint back to headquarters. For a moment, the only sound was the steady drip of water from his uniform as Washington and the aides waited for his reaction. Then he found himself laughing as hysterically as his friends had been, if not more so, almost doubled-over from the force of it.

The night was by no means over, and very soon the incident was temporarily set aside so that the men could focus on their desperate situation. After Hamilton finished dispatching the letter to John Hancock, he retreated to his room for a change of clothes. Well, more a change of stockings and shirt, as he had but one coat and a single pair of breeches. As he hung his sodden clothing by the fire, the door clicked open and shut. Without turning around, he knew who it was.

“I was just about to come back down, John.”

“I know.”

“We won’t be getting much sleep for the foreseeable future. I cannot help but think I am partially to blame, and for that I apologize.”

“No one thinks it was your fault. The circumstances were dire, and you took reasonable precautions.”

“Your tone is odd.” He heard the creak of bedsprings as Laurens sat down, and turned back towards him. “Is everything alright?”

Laurens didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes cast down on the checked blanket. The face that had just recently been lit up with unabashed joy now seemed dim. “I only hoped we might speak about what happened.”

Hamilton smiled. “What happened? Nothing happened.”

He did not want to think about the dead man left in the boat, or the wounded men whose futures were still uncertain. He walked over to the bed in his shirt and stockings and stood before Laurens, close enough to press their knees together. He tried to reach out to fiddle with his friend’s hair, as he so often did, but Laurens brushed his hand aside and turned away.

“You cannot comprehend the effect that letter has had on me. I will admit in confidence, I am still shaken by it.”

“Laurens,” Hamilton said, trying and failing to check the exasperation in his voice, “my dear fellow, that is over and done with. As you can plainly see, I am alive and well.”

As if to prove it, he snuck a hand under his friend’s shirt hem, but Laurens caught his wrist before he could get much farther.

“Not now, Alexander.”

He left the room then, and the two didn’t speak for the remainder of the evening. They apologized to one another a week or so later, though Hamilton was still not sure what great wrong he had inflicted by failing to die. It was a little mystery that he tucked away, and one that mattered not, for Laurens had never raised the point again.

 

* * *

 

Had that been five years past? It hardly seemed possible. But here was Philip on his lap, living proof that time had passed and things had changed. Hamilton was sure that once he introduced Laurens to Philip and his dear Betsey, his friend would begin to understand the blessings of domesticity that he had so long dismissed. And Laurens would meet them, of that Hamilton was certain.

_“_ The limited information at hand is not enough to condemn John,” he thought. “It is possible that he was injured in some skirmish, but even this I find difficult to believe. It is more likely that the typical distortions have occurred that so often lead to a false report. It would be irresponsible of me to believe uncorroborated reports of such a serious nature, and I doubt Laurens would forgive me mourning him prematurely.”

It was a long way from South Carolina to New York—the letter that they had received was dispatched from New Jersey, and it was likely that before that had been a separate letter from Virginia, and then perhaps a first letter from South Carolina.

“The first letter may have said no more than that a small group of British soldiers were chased away. The Combahee River.”he smiled, mildly amused by the coincidences. “Why are rivers always the source of such confusion?”

But then again: “It was not so unreasonable for Captain Lee to report me dead. The British shots were not wasted at Schuylkill, after all, and a man did die. Certainly it was a dangerous mission. Perhaps…perhaps I have been…” he could not finish the thought, and rallied himself. “I cannot let myself be so affected by mere speculation. If I accept such paltry intelligence as the unerring truth, I set a dangerous precedent. Laurens would never forgive me.”

He recollected the moment when he had first understood the contents of Lee’s letter. What had been a happy memory was now tinged with guilt. John’s face in the bedroom upstairs, stricken and confused, came suddenly to mind. Hamilton’s apology then had not been sincere. He would need to try again, when they were at last reunited.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp jab of Philip’s emerging incisors. The small yelp he let out set his child giggling.

“Do you think it amusing, little Phil?” he said, shifting the baby to his knee and bouncing him up and down, “do you think it great fun to cause your poor father pain?”

Philip grinned his assent.

“Yes, well, perhaps your mother will take you off my abused hands. She tolerates your cruelty more than I.”

He stood up slowly, his legs gone slightly stiff, and lifted Philip into his arms.

“My darling boy, what fun you will have tormenting Colonel Laurens. I’ll warn you, he has a warm spirit and may fight back.”

“Alexander.”

He stopped cold in the doorway at the sound of Eliza’s voice. She was standing stock-still in the hallway, her hands twisting the fabric of her skirt.

“Betsey…hello. We were just about to look for you.”

She reached out for Philip wordlessly, and took him to her shoulder.

“What did you mean by that?” she said quietly.

He hesitated. “Mean by what?”

“What you said. What I heard you say.”

“Were you listening at my door?” Hamilton said, and his tone was more fearful than accusatory.

“I only intended to call you for breakfast, but I…” she shifted uncomfortably and gestured to the door with her free hand. “May we sit?”

He didn’t say anything, but followed her back into the study. Eliza took the settee and patted the spot beside her. Hamilton stayed standing.

“You were speaking your thoughts aloud, Alexander.”

“Ah,” he managed, and felt his throat constrict. “Yes. I do do that, don’t I?”

“Where did you put the letter?”

“Betsey, please—”

“Did you save the letter? Do you have it?”

Hamilton waved an arm at the stacks of books and papers and gave a hopeless little laugh. “Somewhere, I’m sure.”

She sighed, and when she looked up her eyes were bright with tears. “Please find it. Read it once more.”

“I  _have_ read it. I do not think it necessary to—“

“Alex,  _please_.” Hamilton was shocked into silence. Eliza did not need to raise her voice to impress the urgency of her plea. “I  _heard_  you. I did not know Colonel Laurens, but I know that he loved you and he would not wish you to throw your intelligence away on a  _delusion_.”

He stared at her, hands finally still by his side.

“He would not forgive you that,” she said.

In the long silence, the air grew heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Hamilton offered Eliza his hand and helped her back up.

“I’m sorry, Betsey,” he said in a low voice. “for worrying you.”

She pressed a soft hand to his cheek and breathed deeply. “Just give it time, my love,” she said. “Will you come to breakfast?”

“I might be a moment longer here.”

Eliza nodded and walked to the hall, pausing in the doorway to look back over her shoulder. “We’ll be downstairs.”

He managed a small smile. “I know.”

When Eliza and Philip had left, there was not a flicker of movement in the room. The curtains hung heavy and silent. The precarious stacks of paper looked as though they had been carved from marble. Even the dust motes seemed to still. Hamilton cut through the static scene like a sleepwalker, crossing over to the desk by the window with unconscious grace. He did not open the drawer. He did not read the letter. He brushed his fingers against the cold metal of the handle and closed his eyes. He could picture it clearly, the twice folded letter with the crimped edges and the small tear in the top, interred forever in its own narrow wooden box.

“I must apologize, my dear Laurens, for the empty apology I offered you when you were so distressed. You see,” he said, wiping absently at his eyes, “I did not know then what I know now.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> • Grum is an 18th-century word derived from the word "grumbly." All it means is sour or sullen. I couldn't resist throwing in at least one completely archaic word.


End file.
